


Skin Deep

by I_Have_An_Inkling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Magical Make-Overs, Non-Graphic Violence, Really pointless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Have_An_Inkling/pseuds/I_Have_An_Inkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of six people in John Watson's life that get make-overs, and John's (sometimes silly) reactions to seeing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme, but I lost the original prompt. Ah well, it wasn't that complicated. Basically it was: Give someone a make-over and make John react to it. Wash, rinse, repeat.
> 
> Enjoy!

Molly was nervous as she entered Bart's that morning. But this was nothing new. Molly had a history of habitual nervousness. For once though, she felt entirely justified.

She entered the silent morgue and set her purse on the chair by the door. She picked up the stack of folders on her desk and skimmed the reports tucked inside. Before long she wandered over to the two new bodies, absorbed in the work. She didn't even notice that her nervousness had melted away until four hours later when the doors to the morgue snapped open with a dramatic flourish.

Molly looked up from her spot at the desk, heart suddenly jumping into her throat because _Oh god, oh god only one person walks into the morgue like that and did he notice yet? Oh god, don't stare, don't say something stupi-_

"...Molly?" Sherlock froze just inside the doorway, his face blank, his eyes wide and staring.

It strikes Molly just how unsure Sherlock sounds when he says her name, and as she rises from her chair she feels perversely satisfied by it. Good, let him flounder in shock for once.

Of course Sherlock recovers quickly, and of course the bastard doesn't mention anything after that. Molly can feel her artificial confidence plummet as the moment passes and five minutes later they are both elbow deep in a corpse when John walks in.

"Sherlock, they didn't have any...Christ!" John stops a few steps inside the door, staring at Molly. His eyebrows nearly jump to his hairline and his mouth freezes halfway open. The effect is comical and Molly giggles as her perverse satisfaction returns.

"Jesus...You look...," John trails off.

Molly almost runs her fingers through her short hair before she remembers her gore covered gloves. Her hair feels a bit stiff from all the product, sticking out at cute little angles and framing her jaw. She knows how flattering the bob is on her. She's wearing a pair of pink metal rimmed glasses as well and they give her face quite the air of maturity. Deciding to go for broke, she had bought some new blouses to complete the new look – ones in deep, jewel colours with daring necklines. She was wearing the red one today, and her skin glowed like gold against it.

Molly thought the overall effect was sexy and she had felt so confident that morning putting it all on.

John is still staring and next to her, Sherlock straightened with a frown.

"Come along John, I've found what I was looking for," Sherlock brushed past Molly, tossing a pair of gloves in the bin. His coat billowed as he strode past John and turned to wait expectantly at the door.

"You look great, Molly," John ignores Sherlock. He smiles and Molly smiles and it's just one of the best moments she can _ever_ remember. "Really, you do."

"Thanks, John."

"Come _along_ John."

John sighed and did an about face, walking calmly through the open doors. Molly watched Sherlock hesitate, his body halfway out the door before he turned back with a quirk of the lips.

" _Molly,_ " It's just her name, but the way he says it makes her blush and she can't shake the unreasonable feeling that Sherlock is giving her a compliment.

"Sherlock."

The door swings shut behind him softly and for the first time that Molly can remember, her wide, toothy smile isn't faked at all.


	2. Mrs Hudson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to the landlady, _not_ your housekeeper, thank you very much.

John and Sherlock ducked gingerly into the cab, shaking off the rain once inside. The windows were already steaming over as Sherlock leaned forward, giving the driver the address. Beside him, John ran a hand through his wet hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Hnn."

"Are you... wearing perfume?"

Sherlock turned slowly to stare at John. He waited an appropriately dramatic amount of time before saying "Really, John, you can be so disappointing. At times you demonstrate that your powers of observation have increased tenfold, and yet this is only half the work. If you do not couple keen observation with sound, logical reasoning then your conclusions will become... ridiculous." He glared at John for a beat, before turning to look out the window.

" _Jesus!_ It's not like you haven't dressed in drag before. Or what about that week you were trying on every kind of lipstick?"

"Those were experiments," Sherlock is glaring at him again. "And we are on a _case_ John. Kindly employ your brain, for once."

"Well, all I'm saying is it's not _that_ illogical to think you'd wear perfume," John feels justified.

There is a moment where Sherlock glowers and John privately thinks that Sherlock can be a massive git, before Sherlock's expression smooths out.

"It is, in fact, Mrs. Hudson's new perfume, which would have been obvious to you had you cared to pay attention to the state of the landing this morning."

"Sorry...the landing?"

"Yes," Sherlock leaned forward, becoming more animated. "Obviously the landing had been cleaned in the past 24 hours yet no bleach had been used, as is Mrs. Hudson's preference. Instead, a cleaning solution with a pungent floral aroma had been used in it's place. One can conclude from this fact that Mrs. Hudson was concerned with the smell lingering.

"Why? Because the smell of sodium hypochlorite concentrated bleach is notoriously difficult to rinse from one's skin. Furthermore, the door to 221a was locked when we left just now, even though it's four in the afternoon. So where was she? We know her Bridge games meet Thursdays and that she goes shopping on the weekends. We can deduce that it was a personal engagement.

"Conclusion? Mrs. Hudson has a date and has purchased a new perfume for the occasion."

"But then why are you wearing it?" John was still mystified.

"Really John," Sherlock sighed. "Pay attention. What can you tell from the state of my coat?"

John's eyes drifted downwards, taking in the Belstaff's lapels. Sherlock didn't give John time to respond before he launched into the answer himself.

"The make-up, John! Smudged just here, leaving a faint imprint where Mrs. Hudson embraced me earlier in the evening, inadvertently transferring some of her make-up – and perfume – on me in the process."

There was a beat of silence between them as the rain pummeled the windows of the cab.

"Huh. Brilliant."

Sherlock couldn't have looked more like a cat purring if he had tried. He leaned back and turned to look out the window once more.

"Although," John began. "I do hope this new make-over of hers is for someone decent this time."

Sherlock snorted. "Really John, I never took you for the naive type."

Beside him, John sighed.


	3. Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silver fox of Scotland Yard gets a new look.

John saw Lestrade walk through the door, and he leaned out of the booth to flag him down. Next to him were Molly and Sarah, Sally and her friend Tiffany were seated across.

Lestrade blew a warm puff of breath into his hands, then rubbed them together and stomped over to the table. He was almost sitting down before John noticed something was off about the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade took his seat and ordered a pint from the server, who appeared to help the new arrival. When Lestrade turned back to the table in cheery greeting, he caught John's eye.

"What?"

John gave him a funny look. "Nothing, it's just... I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans before. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you in anything but a _suit_."

Sally laughed loudly. "You should 'ave seen him at the department Rugby match last year. Looked like a proper bloke 'n everythin, he did."

"Oi! I am a proper bloke."

" _Suuuuure,_ mate."

"But you always look like a bloke. Oh! I didn't mean it in a bad way though. Like, not a bad bloke, just, you know, blokish?"

"Oh my God, Molly, could you _be_ any cuter?"

"I don't- er- _what?!_ -"

"Well, the new glasses do help her. How long have you worn those, luv?"

The conversation continued down this path and it was loud and boisterous and swelled in greeting when Dimmock joined them moments later. Outside it was unseasonably cold and windy, but inside the pub it is cheerfully warm and bright.

This is the first time they have all met like this outside of work, but John hoped it wouldn't be the last. Everyone at the table looked so natural and carefree. His gaze came to rest on Lestrade again and he smiled.

It isn't just the jeans. It isn't just the fact that there is no tie and no suit. It isn't even that his hair looks uncombed. There's something more to it, something in the wrinkles around Greg's eyes when he laughs or in the lazy way he drinks from his beer.

He's relaxed, John realized. For the first time since John had met him, Gregory Lestrade looks completely relaxed. It's as if the entire time John's known him, Lestrade has been suspended on taught wires. Always tense and jerky, wound up with work and stress. And seeing him here, it's as if someone has cut all the strings to leave Lestrade lazing in his chair, limbs slow and happy and free.

Lestrade caught John's eye and tilted his head in a silent question.

"It's nothing mate . . . it's just good to see you," John smiled. Lestrade grinned back.

Outside the chill sweeps and the wind howls, but inside, for this one moment, things are good.


	4. Angelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's this mysterious man with a ponytail and tattoos?

John lounged against the side of the brick building, tired and aggravated. Sherlock had been such a salve to the boredom in his life, but occasionally (on nights such as this) he added to it.

It was dark on the street, and though it wasn't raining everything felt damp.

 _[Can you see him yet?]_ Sherlock's voice buzzed in his left ear. John sighed and rolled his eyes upwards. He'd been watching the same door for the past hour, waiting for the drug lord (turned murderer) to turn up. Normally Sherlock would have been out there himself, but there had been a confrontation with the man yesterday. Not only was Sherlock's arm now in a sling, the drug lord had gotten a good look at Sherlock's face. Not wanting to blow the surveillance by 'being made' and not wanting to waste the whole night, John had somehow let himself get talked into surveillance duty in Sherlock's place.

For the past hour he had leaned against a wet brick wall away from the light of nearby streetlamps, watching as rough looking men in leather jackets filed in and out of the seedy pub. And still no sign of the damn drug lord.

"Sherlock, I'll let you know as soon as I see him," John murmured into the microphone on his collar.

_[He will have a bodyguard with him tonight.]_

"I know. We went over this already."

 _[You will likely miss him._ There was a slight pause and the sound of shuffling papers. _He should have arrived by now. Describe to me everyone you can see.]_

John sighed. "It's been really quiet, Sherlock. Maybe he's not coming to-"

_[He's coming. Describe what you see.]_

"Fine, fine," John squinted. "There's a woman leaning up against the wall, next to the window. She's only been there a moment. Leather skirt, heels-"

_[Hooker. Irrelevant. Next.]_

"Well, there's the one bloke who's smoking a cigarette. Third one so far tonight. Keeps going back inside after."

_[Hnn. Crack addict. Looking to score. Moving on.]_

"Crack addict? But you can't even see-"

_[Irrelevant. Moving on, John.]_

Another long-suffering sigh. "Well there is this one bloke sitting at a table inside. I've been wondering about him," John frowned. "Big black leather jacket, tattoos all down his neck and arms. Long black ponytail. Looks rough around the edges. He keeps looking out the window every so often and I think sometimes he might see me. Still...he doesn't look like anyone in the pictures you showed me."

_[He's unrelated. Irrelevant. Moving on.]_

"Sherlock," John admonished quietly. "He's probably the best candidate of anyone here. Oh, hang on..." John felt his whole body still. A mousy little man was coming round the corner and headed towards to pub. He was flanked by a large black man in a trench coat. The Drug Lord and his Bodyguard.

"Sherlock, he's here. I think that's him. He's almost to the door."

_[Excellent. Now, is he carrying a brief case, John? Quickly now!]_

"No he's-" John paused. The mousy little man glanced across the street, briefly making eye contact with John and John snapped to attention. In that second, John knew he had been made.  
 _  
[What John? What is it? John?! John!]_

"Bollocks!" John swore. The Drug Lord gave a shout of alarm and bolted up the street, Bodyguard falling into a run just behind him. John pushed off the wall and sprinted after them.

"They've run," John panted out. Ahead of him the two men turned sharply round a corner and disappeared from sight. John took the corner wide, and ducked his head in anticipation of a blow.

The Bodyguard looked surprised as his fist swung harmlessly over John's head. Over the Bodyguard's shoulder John could make out the mousy little Drug Lord jogging down the street. Right then, John would have to make this quick.

Weaving sideways, John pulled his arms in close to his body and brought his fists up to guard his face. The Bodyguard recovered quickly, spinning around and throwing a solid right hook at John's head. John tried to step back but he misjudged the man's reach and ended up wincing as the blow glanced off his raised arms, pain flaring briefly in his wrist.

Using the opening after the blow, John jumped forward with a left hook. He caught the man right on the jaw and it felt like punching solid rock. Instead of dropping him, the Bodyguard caught John's wrist and the two of them fell to the ground wrestling. This was going a lot worse than John had planned.

Then all of the sudden it was over. 

The Bodyguard was pulled sharply away from John by the large man in a leather jacket and dark cap. John didn't stop to question his luck. He was on his feet in a flash running down the now empty street, alert for signs of the Druglord.

He caught sight of the man turning into a doorway. Blocking out Sherlock's electronic voice buzzing like a fly in his ear, John leapt up the steps and through the doorway. John caught up to the man in the dim hallway just inside the door. 

The Druglord swung around, managing to catch John off guard with a ferocious outburst of aggression. The punch caught John in the jaw and for one second John's head exploded in a white burst of pain.

Training took over and John floored the man with an answering swing. A swift kick to the ribs kept the man on the ground. With calm purpose, John withdrew the Browning pistol from his waistband and leveled it carefully at the pale man's head.

"Don't move. I have some questions for you." It hurt to say 'move', 'some', and 'questions'. John tested his lip with his tongue, tasting blood. He tensed, sensing a presence behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

It was the tattooed man that had been sitting in the pub earlier that night, the one that John had been suspicious of. The one that had intervened with the Bodyguard a moment ago. John jerked the gun around to aim at him instead.

"Whoa there, 'is me John!" The man held his hands up in a peaceful gesture.

John lowered the pistol immediately, recognizing the voice but not recognizing the man. His head rang a little, muddled.

"Who?-"

"Its me, John. Angelo?" And suddenly it was obvious. It was like staring at some strange bizarro-world version of Angelo, like Angelo's long lost evil twin brother.

Angelo had a rough looking leather jacket on. There were tattoos on his neck and arms and several days worth of gruff beard growing on his face. A cap was pulled down over his brow and his greasy black ponytail hung low on his shoulders. The whole ensemble made him look every bit like the criminal John had been warned Angelo was, and not a bit like the placid restaurateur John thought he knew so well.

The Druglord groaned from his position on the floor as Sherlock stepped over the threshold and into the crowded hallway.

"I told you to wait for Angelo, John," His voice echoed in John's ear in a disorienting way and John dug the electronic device out, letting it dangle from it's wire.

There was a lot of pushing and shoving after that. John found a warm, dry spot to sit down on the steps outside as Angelo and Sherlock manhandled drug lord. John rested his head in his hands, sighing. He had a split lip and he'd have a migraine in the morning for sure.

After a while there was a gentle tap on his shoulder, and John looked up to see Angelo smiling down at him.

"Been a while since I've been in a scrap, sorry I wasn't quicker. Not as spry as I used to be, mind you. Still," He sat down next to John, "You seemed well enough on your own, there."

John smiled. "I didn't know that was you. I thought..." He trailed off tiredly.

Angelo guffawed. "Just like Sherlock to leave a detail like _that_ out."

The two of them were still chuckling when Sherlock emerged behind them. His eyes flicked over John, eventually coming to rest on the bloody lip. He tutted, looking away.

"Come along, John. Tonight has been _utterly_ fruitless." He didn't wait for John to answer as he strode down the stairs and began walking into the dark night.

John rose unsteadily to his feet, thinking fondly of a hot cup of tea and his warm, dry bed. He held out his hand to bizarro Angelo and grinned.

"Guess this means I owe you, now."

Angelo smiled wolfishly at him. "Anything for my favorite customers."


End file.
